Ice and Shadow Page 20

  “Who are you?” Again that dull wonder. “What—what am I doing here? Where is this?”

  “Hold—keep hold or we cannot get out!” She summoned what small authority she had to impress that need on him. “We cannot see. But if we keep to the wall we can find the door.”

  “Who are you?” He no longer struggled, but he stopped short so she bumped against him.

  “I am Roane—Roane Hume—” What had happened to him she did not know, and her fear grew. What if—But she would not allow herself to think of that. “Come—you must go on—we must get out!” Her control wavered and her voice rose shrilly.

  “Out—where?” He took another step forward as if her urgency as well as her strong push had activated him.

  “Out into the open! Please, we must go. Oh, please—Move, you must, you must!”

  At least she had him on his way again. And a moment later, when he halted once again, she dared to beat one fist again the shoulder touching hers.

  “On!”

  “There is no way. It is all solid.”

  For a second or two she was caught in panic and then a small measure of reason triumphed. Of course, they must have reached a corner! They had found the wall in which the door panel was set.

  “Right—turn right—” Roane tugged and pulled at him. Perhaps “left,” “right,” had no meaning for him. Somehow she got him around, started in the new direction. And then—blessedly—cool air and an opening!

  “Through here! Be careful, there is a step up—”

  Somehow she got him through. The distort—But the blast must have rendered that harmless. They were safe in the passage, breathing untainted air. Roane leaned against the wall, drawing that reviving coolness into her laboring lungs.

  The scarlet curtain before her eyes had faded. There was one thing she might try. She fumbled at the supply bag, brought out the night lenses, was almost afraid to look as she got them on.

  Her eyes still smarted, burned, felt as if hot sand had been poured into their corners, under their lids. But—she could see! Though it was as if she peered through a haze. She drew close to Imfry, surveying him searchingly. He leaned against the wall as she had done, his hands raised to his head where he pawed feebly, as if trying to rub away something clinging to his face. But she could see no sign of burn or injury.

  By so much they had escaped. They had—but what of Sandar? She looked back. There was no radiance within the chamber now—and dead silence. Dead—She hesitated. It could well be that the shock of what had happened here could be detected by the crew of the LB. Against them she and Imfry were defenseless. Yet she could not take even the first step toward safety.

  Roane caught Imfry’s hands, held them tight, trying to get his unfocused eyes to meet hers as she spoke. “You must stay here until I return.” She accented each word with force.

  “Stay—return—” he repeated. His mouth hung slackly open. She had never seen anything as empty as his face.

  Horror fed her fear. She dared not think about his condition.

  She fled back through the panel, making herself concentrate on Sandar. Dim as her sight was, the lenses were an aid to show what had been wrought here. Where the pillars had stood, there were now rent and blackened stubs, the crowns gone. Bitter fumes made her cough, rasped her throat.

  Where had Sandar been? Without the crowns to guide her she could no longer be certain. Roane stumbled on, not sure she would even find evidence of his being, a sour bile rising in her mouth so that she had to keep swallowing to fight it. Then she saw the huddle of body and flung herself down beside it.

  The horror of a fire death did not face her. But when she pulled at his shoulder, he rolled heavily limp. If he still lived she must get him out of this poisonous atmosphere. Somehow she was able to grasp him under the armpits, scramble backward, dragging him.

  She bumped him across the panel barrier, letting him sprawl out into the corridor. Once more she rolled him over, her hand seeking a heartbeat. And she found that flutter just as the ground under her shook. Roane cried out—was the whole tunnel about to collapse around them?

  Sandar coughed feebly, his head turned from side to side, his hands tried to dig into the rock as if he would lift himself. The tunnel—

  Then Roane understood. Memories from the old life which might have been lived by another person reassured her. That had been the shock of deter rockets. The LB had landed.

  A clear warning to move out. She arose. Her cousin was not dead, and he would soon be in the hands of his own people. If she and Imfry would escape, they must do it now. Nelis still stood against the wall, but now his arms were out, braced against the smoothed stone, his head strained forward as if he listened for what he could not see. As she moved, his face turned quickly to her.

  “Who is there?” There was a new crispness in his demand. His voice was not dazed as it had been earlier.

  “Roane. We must go now.”

  When she touched him his tense body was iron-hard. He raised a hand, struck out blindly, as if to ward her off.

  “Go where?” he demanded.

  “Out of here. And quickly. They will come seeking Sandar, to see the installation—they must not find us here.”

  “Who must not find us here?” He was impervious to her urging, stubborn in his rigidity of body.

  “Uncle Offlas—those from the LB. We must go!”

  “You mean that. You are afraid,” he answered her. “I can feel your fear. Who are you?”

  “Roane! I am Roane.” She was close to tears. His voice was clearer, his face no longer had that slack, mindless look. But that he did not know her—there was something very wrong.

  “Roane,” he repeated. “And who am I?”

  She was trembling. Her worst fear was being dragged into fact. “You are Colonel Nelis Imfry. Do you remember nothing—nothing at all?”

  He made her no direct answer. Rather he seemed to wish to avoid that. “You are afraid for yourself?”

  “For myself, yes,” she answered honestly. “And for you. They will have good reason to wish us both under their hands. Please, we must go.” She reached for him again, fearing that he might strike her, yet determined to start him in flight. But when his hand came this time, it was not balled into a fist, but open, stretched to welcome hers. She seized it eagerly.

  “Come!”

  Again she pulled him along the passage at as swift a pace as she could urge on him. Then at last they were able to grope out into the open. She had hoped that, once free of the installation room, Imfry would regain his sight. But he still depended upon her guidance even as they walked into the night.

  The wind, untainted by corrosive stench, was sweet and cold around them. Roane saw him lift his face into it. Then he said without visible emotion:

  “I can see now.”

  She gave a cry of relief, dropping his hand. Her own sight was dimmed. Even the lenses could not give things clear-cut outlines. That that impairment might be permanent she dared not consider.

  “It is very strange,” Imfry continued. He might have been thinking aloud rather than speaking to her. “There is a kind of emptiness—”

  Then more forcibly, as if he were uttering some necessary formula to establish a fact:

  “I am Nelis Imfry, of the House of Imfry-Manholm. I am a Colonel in the service of Her Majesty, Queen Ludorica of Reveny. I am me—Nelis Imfry!”

  He was quiet then, his eyes seeking the stars where the wind-tossed branches alternately revealed and hid their glitter. A waning moon was rising, its sickle of silver cutting the cloudless sky.

  “I remember, but it is as if those memories have dimmed. Yet I am Nelis Imfry, and the rest of it is true.”

  “Yes,” she told him.

  Her agreement appeared to startle him out of that trancelike state. He turned swiftly as if he feared to face an enemy. Gazing full at her he stood silently, as one might study a landmark which was altered from what he thought it had been.

  “Tell me,�
� he ordered, “what has chanced. While I was in darkness.”

  “When I tried to stop Sandar the energy ray lanced across one of the pillars. It set off a chain reaction—all the installation was destroyed—the crowns are gone.” Would he understand?

  His dark brows drew together in a frown. “Crowns? Pillars?”

  “The installation left by the Psychocrats to rule this world—”

  His mouth set firmly. “The Queen rules Reveny.”

  “Now she does,” assented Roane, wondering if that were indeed the truth, or if the destruction of the crowns had pulled down upon Reveny the fate of Arothner.

  “You speak of facts you believe in, but it is not clear to me. Make me understand!” He advanced as if he intended to shake it out of her.

  She was afraid again. This haggard stranger was not Nelis Imfry. Was this what the destruction of the crowns meant? For there was as noticeable a change in him as there had been in Ludorica when she held the Ice Crown.

  “It is a long story,” she said helplessly.

  “That does not matter. Tell it!”

  So once more she went over the familiar tale. Only this time she had no relief in the telling, only a cold feeling born not of the chill wind about them, but rather of a great loneliness.

  He listened intently, though little change of expression was apparent on his lean face. He might have been some judge presiding over a trial where she was the accused.

  Imfry did not interrupt her with any questions, but heard her through to that end which was the unplanned destruction of the installation. And when she was done Roane wavered. The pain in her eyes was worse, spreading back into her head, so that she was more aware of that than her surroundings.

  “You understand the danger if those of the Service find us. They must not!” She put all the energy she had left into that last warning. Her eyes—her head—she could not stand it any longer. She remembered swaying, the sound of a cry, and then pain, a great sea of fire, engulfed her.

  Coolness, blessed coolness—dark and cool. To hide in this dark, cool place and never venture forth again. Sensation rather than thought. Cool and wet—the fire going. She did not want to move, yet she was moving. Roane tried to protest, discovered she had not the energy to form words. She heard dimly a moaning sound.

  “Roane—” A ripple through the cool dark. No—let her alone—just let her alone!

  “Roane!”

  Dimly she knew that for a summons. She would not answer. Let her be! She was moving, though not on her own two feet. And the jar set her head hurting, so she made a great effort and thought she begged to be let alone. But if they heard her they did not heed. She escaped once again into the cool dark.

  But the second time she was drawn out of that refuge she could not slip back. She lay on a surface which was not soft, though there was that under her which cushioned it a little. Her face was wet, as if she had been out in a storm, but that came from a soaked cloth laid across her forehead and eyes. At least she lay still, no moving racking her body.

  “. . . tall as a keep, I swear to you, sir. Nothing like it I have ever seen. And I counted five men come out of it. They went in and out by ladder, taking stuff back in. But a couple more went into that cave. Seeing that thing, you have to believe the whole story. But men traveling to the stars? You have to have proof of a tale such as that. And with one feeling like his head was empty—well, I could say this was a dream—or some Soothspeaker trick. Are you sure, sir, it is not? I mean, if Shambry was strong enough to hold the Queen in thrall that way, maybe he could be working on us now—even at a distance.”

  “A man cannot make you see what he does not know exists. That star ship has no match here.”

  “True enough. But this queer feeling in one’s head—though that is wearing off now, sir. But I tell you it was really bad when it first hit. Mattine ran around in a circle for a space, actually yelling he was a Nimp scout or some such nonsense. At least I thought I heard him say that. Hunlow had to lay him out when he drew steel. And the rest of us, we did not even know our own names for a while. If it was like that for us here, just think of what might have happened in a town with all the people going dazed or crazy. Some seem to take longer to get over it. Fleech did. We had to lug him along for quite a march and tell him over and over who he was and where we were. Nasty experience. Worse than facing a Nimp charge.”

  Wuldon. Roane’s sluggish mind matched a name to that voice. Who else was with him? They—or Wuldon—must have seen the LB. But what if its crew was now hunting them? She must warn—

  It required such an effort to force her hand up to her face, to tug at the fold of wet cloth blindfolding her.

  “Nelis—” Hers was a ghost voice, a thread of whisper.

  But it brought quick response. “Roane!” And her hand was stayed in its effort to sweep aside the cloth, put down to lie once more at her side. So he knew—understood again?

  “Let that be for a while yet. Your eyes are badly inflamed. Do you know who I am?”

  Did he think she was the one who had been out of her head? “Nelis Imfry,” she answered with a spurt of indignation. “And Wuldon is here, too. But—” She remembered that other urgency. “Nelis—the ship—they must not find us!”

  “I assure you they shall not. We have a range of hills between us, and scouts out. I have all the respect for their powers you wish me to show. We take no chances. And at the first sign of any hunt we shall be on the trail again. Now”—a strong arm was slipped under her head, she was raised a little—“drink this!”

  Cool metal against her lips. She sipped and then choked and coughed, for the liquid had a spicy warmth.

  “No—” She found his hold was such she could not avoid what he offered. “More—it is what you need now.”

  After the first mouthful or two she discovered it was not bad. So she obediently drank until the cup was taken away.

  “My bag—the medicines—”

  “Here, m’lady!” That was Wuldon.

  “Look for a white tube.” With the spicy drink downed, Roane was regaining both strength and the ability to think for herself again. “It holds a green liquid—drops for the eyes.”

  “Got it!” Then Imfry added, “How many?”

  “Two each—for now.”

  He settled her back on the thin bedding pad and the wet cloth was pulled away. Light dazzled and hurt, but she forced herself to lie still as the moisture dripped in. That burned, but with none of the pain she had known earlier. She held her lids tightly closed. If there would be any relief it would come quickly.

  Slowly she counted to a hundred, but not aloud, hearing small sounds as if they were repacking her bag. Then she opened her eyes. The light hurt, but she could see—and more clearly than she had since the chain reaction.

  Nelis, the stubble beard longer and darker, a tousled lock of hair sticking to his forehead as if plastered there—the Sergeant at an angle.

  “I can see,” Roane said, more to assure herself then to inform them. “Let me look—please, let me look.” For suddenly she must reassure herself of this recovery.

  Once more Nelis raised her before she could struggle up on her own. They were in a clearing and she thought it must be midmorning. Men moved or sat some distance away. Behind them a rope was strung between two trees, a tie place for the reins of saddled duocorns, who stamped or wrinkled their hides to drive off insects.

  Some of the men were in uniform. Others wore civilian clothes or the green of foresters. Their small band of fugitives had doubled many times.

  “Could you eat, m’lady? We have nothing but field rations—or there is one of those tubes of your own food left.”

  “Get that,” Nelis ordered and the Sergeant moved out of her line of sight.

  “How are your eyes?”

  “I can see!” And she knew by her very joy how deep-reaching had been her fear. “Do the others know what has happened?” she asked.

  “Not the whole of it. It is not the kind o
f story to be widely told. To know one has lived in slavery to a machine—” There was a hot undercurrent in his voice. “And how far that domination has gone—”

  “Ludorica and the crown.” Her thought followed his. “If it has so affected all of you who had no direct contact with it, what will it do to those who hold the crowns?”

  He was looking beyond her, as if he did not want her to see what lay in his eyes.

  “That we must learn. The destruction seems to have affected people in various ways. So far all these men have come out of it. But with some the daze was longer, deeper. And they are all relatively far removed from influence. As you say—what has happened close to the crowns—”

  “Here, m’lady.” The Sergeant was back with the E-ration. Roane sucked at the semiliquid avidly, for she discovered that her hunger had awakened.

  Her recovery seemed to be the signal for which they had been waiting. Sergeant Wuldon went to the picket line, and men began to ride out, in twos and threes, each saluting Imfry as he passed. In the end only Wuldon, Mattine, and two others were left.

  “We had best be on the move,” Nelis said. “I know you are not strong enough to ride alone, but we have a mount that will carry double, and that we can share.”

  So it was that after Imfry had mounted, Wuldon lifted her as if she had no weight at all, passing her up to his superior.

  “Where do we go?” Roane asked as the trees arched over them, shutting out the sun.

  “Skulking. Until we know more of what chances. We shall follow the river road. The men are scouting in a wide sweep to see what they can pick up. If there is an open path we shall head for Urkermark.”

  “The Queen?”

  “The Queen—if she is still Queen.” His voice was remote, cool. “We do not know what we shall find, we can only ride to find it.”

  “You had no part in this.” She tried to guess his line of thought. “It was my hand—and chance—which did it.”

  “I told you, I do not believe that chance alone ruled this,” was his reply. And he did not add to that as they jogged ahead.